By Your Hand Is the Only End I Foresee
by Esperance
Summary: To anyone that cares, Matt actually did die a virgin. Onesided Matt/Ace!Mello.


Title: By Your Hand (Is the Only End I Foresee)  
Author: jackedUPonDRpepper  
Word Count: ~3000  
Rating: T+ for language and sexual themes

Author's Notes: I will go down with the MattxMello ship, come hell or high water or icebergs, but this is a headcanon of mine I wanted to explore at least once. In the story below you will find an asexual!Mello whose views definitely do _NOT_ represent my own; Mello just doesn't seem like a person who would take the time to search his feelings between armed robberies and chocolate binges.

Title is from By Your Hand by Los Campesinos!

* * *

To anyone that cares, Matt actually did die a virgin.

He doesn't know about the other orphanages in the Winchester area, but Wammy's was not exactly swarming in debauchery and underage sex, midnight romps in the gardens, and drunken seduction in forgotten supply closets. Especially when the children were more concerned about the next day's Astrophysics exam or a pop quiz on the first 500 verbs in the Greek language in alphabetical order than, say, that night's conquest.

Or at least Matt himself wasn't like that. Call him a romantic, or probably more accurately just that awkward nerd who never left his room and spent his early teenage years having wet dreams about buxom fictional videogame beauties who knew how to fire a grenade launcher and dazed final bosses with panty shots. He never even had a girlfriend, much less actual contact with girls, especially of a sexual kind.

But then there was Mello. Mello, who almost oozed ironic sexuality with his androgyny and his frenetic energy and that strange charisma that could shake anyone up.

He can't pinpoint the day it started, but there was a point in time where Matt realized that Mello sometimes kissed other boys. On purpose. More than once he walked into their shared dormitory room only to see his best friend and a person of the same sex attached via lip-lock in what appeared to be a clumsy contest to see who could suck all the breath from the other's mouth, only to have a flurry of separation and shouts of "Goddammit, Matt!" and awkward variations of "...Um, yeah, guess I'll see you?" as the poor soul fled from the scene of the crime (of passion).

At first it struck him as strange. Not that he was opposed to Mello kissing other boys, because he knew about how it was okay for boys to like other boys or girls to kiss other girls, but he just...hadn't known. That Mello was even remotely interested in anything concerning romance—he was always just the one-track mind of making all perfect scores and being the best and crushing the competition—it just seemed out of place that he was investing time in something that could make him feel and, ultimately, be used as a weakness.

And it wasn't just surprise at that, either. Even from the first time, seeing Mello with someone like that, it stirred up something in an area of his chest cavity that if he was more mushy he would identify as his heart. It was like it was wrong in another way.

But time went on, and he figuratively shrugged and let life-and Mello's pseudo-love life-carry on. After a few weeks it stopped being him walking in on innocent kisses. There was the fateful day when he walked in on Mello and a different boy-it was never the same boy twice, more of a cycle of three or four different ones of varying ages, he came to realize eventually-and there were definitely clothes _off_. From that day on he knew to never barge in without knocking, or to turn around if there was a certain color tie around the knob, and even a few times a boy would come to the door and Mello would say outright, "Piss off for awhile, would you?"

And he would slink off to the common room or the library, Gameboy in hand (because you did what you had to do to keep your only friend, right?), feeling decidedly miserable for reasons he still could not identify. And he could usually time it to around half an hour; Mello really didn't dally and his partners didn't really like to linger, and he would go back to a room with just his best friend in it once again. Sometimes unclothed, sometimes with just no pants, and sometimes already back to his homework and third chocolate bar of the day like nothing had happened at all.

Matt was never under the illusion that Mello actually loved anyone he slept with (to put it more delicately, because no one ever stayed the night). Hell, half the time he wondered if Mello even liked them, or saw any of the boys as anything but warm bodies he could relieve his sexual tension with. Whenever he saw any of them cross paths in the hallways, Mello always looked completed unaffected and the other always clearly uncomfortable. He never got anything special on Christmas or Valentine's Day, apart from the extra candy that Matt got him. He never looked lonely when Matt got back into the room, staring off with a forlorn look in his eye or tears collecting at the corners. Not lonely, or sad or even particularly thrilled, coasting from the rush of endorphins or hormones or whatever. If he hadn't known any better, maybe Matt would have thought he was just offering private tutoring sessions.

After enough time of noticing this, Matt wondered why Mello did it. If it wasn't anything special, if he acted like he didn't get anything out if it neither on an emotional or physical level.

Maybe that was about the time he realized maybe that he liked boys, too.

More specifically; less plural, more singluar.

Even though Mello never invited him in to his bed, much less looked at him like that, or insinuated anything, and he supposed that maybe that was for the best. Sleeping with your best friend, unless it was some kind of fictional love comedy with a couple that got together in the end, always only ended in heartbreak on one or both sides and a friendship too broken to function anymore. And he couldn't risk that (or so he told himself sometimes, when he was back to sitting in a public place with his Gameboy and waiting for Mello to finish with someone else, because while that was 99.99% guaranteed to happen, there was always that point-one percent chance they could get together and it would be amazing and both of them could fill each other's voids and save their respective lives that were steadily spiraling out of control).

And maybe he still held on to that old notion, maybe something his mother had taught him before she'd died, when she read to him from those picture-storybooks just before bedtime, or something in those songs he heard that she would sing to him as he slipped into much more peaceful sleep, that it was something to do with someone you loved. Just them. More than a few minutes and a good time and something to brag about in the morning, or something you just experimented with one time and then avoided for all the shame and guilt you carried. It was forever.

He asked, once, for reasons he can't remember, not long before he left-not if Mello would consider trying anything with him-but why he did it. Instead of telling him to fuck off, or shrugging him off with some dismissive answer, Mello had cocked his head, eyes searching, as if the answer should have struck his friend a long time before.

"It's useful."

Like it was a weapon. A tool. Even then he should have traced it back to that rivalry with Near, something that gave him an edge because Near couldn't do it but Mello would and maybe L would have applauded him for his ingenuity.

And then he recalled all the times that after a "session" Mello would have certain test answers, or could call in a favor from an obscure source, or even sometimes when Near would show up with a suspiciously-shaped bruise and a glare even colder aimed straight at Wammy's second-best the next day...too often to be mere coincidence.

And finally he thought about those times he walked in on him kissing someone else. Maybe he had imagined it, or projected what he wanted to see, but with his eyes wide open, Mello looked too much like the irony that was his name. Instead of the normal concentration of energy he was, he looked unaffected. Almost bored. That time Matt walked in and they were doing more, the other boy had been the only one shocked, embarrassed, his face red with discovery and lust and thrill. Mello had been the one looking but not seeing, moving but just mechanically. Like it was something he knew the motions to, or some procedure he was trying to memorize for a later time. Like the most beautiful Mozart violin concerto being played perfectly by a robot, something being made but with no feeling behind it.

And then life carried on some more, and like it must do eventually for everyone, it ended for some. And because of that, Mello left. Mello left him.

But Matt stayed. For a while.

While he was zipping around the globe with a host of aliases and cracking all kinds of virtual codes and bringing down firewalls and all other kinds of cyberterrorism to find him (but not going to bars or back alleys and getting laid, thank you very much), Mello was sleeping his way through the Mafia.

He would know, because his first tip-off had been when Mello informed him how high up he was in the ranks and Matt asked how he did it so fast and the amount of people he would admit to killing was suspiciously low, Mello had evaded the question. And then it was especially clear when Matt walked into the apartment they shared and in on Mello and faceless, brawny sleazeballs that were a far cry from faceless, thin pubescent boys. Not just in size, but in...position and what they said, among other things that he would rather not dwell on.

Mello had apparently improved his technique, because it certainly sounded like he enjoyed the excercise, and he might have even looked more like he wanted it, but he apparently wasn't too...excited. But then again, those guys probably liked not having to reciprocate, nothing more than a quick fix, listening to an excuse of maybe a muttered "I finished too, while you were..." as they tuck shirt tails in and zip up pants and it's back to business, as usual.

(And dammit sometimes Matt would turn around and go outside and slam his fist into a brick wall because he was nothing better than a _whore_.)

And then Mello blew his face off. And apparently no one likes to fuck someone with a half-burnt face. And that was just fine with Matt, who still had those same romantic ideals and relentless feelings on his same best friend (no matter what he chose to do with his life, which was becoming more manic and deadly by the day) and intact virginity.

Then the night before, when he was working his way through his last cigarette in the pack, reminding himself to buy some tomorrow before the big heist, or whatever they were calling it. Hell, just call it like he saw it: suicide pact. A movie he's seen probably a thousand times before, because he truly is that much of a nerd, is on television in the background. There's the hum of a dilapidated refrigerator behind him with just enough alcohol for him to get wasted and not have a killer hangover in the morning.

And Mello turns to him, right in the middle of the big battle sequence, with the arrows and mythological creatures, and the...death, usually so far away and unreal but tonight much more unsettling than he'd admit.

"If you want to, we can."

And Matt might be smart, and Matt might be in the prime of his life, libido-wise, but his thoughts are nowhere near the gutter at that moment, they're somewhere between reviewing the odds of making it past tomorrow morning alive for the millionth time and the make-believe land of Middle Earth, and he raises an eyebrow. Mello rolls his eyes.

"If you want to fuck me, we can go to the bedroom," he elaborates, as delicate as always. "Or the sofa, I'm not picky."

Matt just blinks, wondering if he's somehow started dozing on the sofa and this is just a dream, but Mello's impatient. "For fuck's sake, Matt, stop staring at me and tell me yes or no. I know you've wanted this since we were fourteen."

And he has. More than the word can do it justice. And maybe he should be insulted, that Mello's always known but never acted on it, or that this sound suspiciously like just a pity-fuck, but then Mello doesn't wait for his answer and touches him _there_ and god, his own hand has never felt like that, and he makes a noise that's mostly a whine but might be somewhat of a manly groan if he's lucky. But hell, he knows Mello's not fooled and he knows he can do exactly whatever he wants with him, so he lets Mello take out the cigarette and grab the back of his neck and slam their lips together.

He tastes just like he thought he would. Dark chocolate and metal and insanity. Matt doesn't know what he's doing, but Mello does, using his tongue and sucking and nipping until Matt is moaning and he doesn't know how he'll even live if they try and go further. And then there is a hand sliding down his chest, a trail down his throat, weight settling in his lap and friction, electric and foreign, and he knows these are the brief moments before clothes will be discarded.

And then reality catches up and he pulls away.

"No." He more mouths than says, trying to catch his breath.

Mello draws back, frowning, echoing. "No?"

Certain parts of his lower anatomy are pressed against his pants uncomfortably, but he knows without looking down that Mello's got nothing. And he can't truthfully say he's surprised. Disappointed that he's not different from the rest, yes, but not surprised.

"You-you don't like this."

Mello might make a half-aborted attempt to reinitiate contact, but it's gone as he tries to get the cigarette back, fails, and sits with his head between his knees at the other end of the sofa, staring down at some unidentifiable stain courtesy of the previous tenant.

"Look, I know. I know." He shakes his head. Maybe it's a curse that he got too close to Mello-not that it's going to be the end of him, because it is, but because he can always catch him in his lies. "You don't do this because you like it, you never did." He runs his fingers through his hair. "It's just...what you do. It's how you can get through people's defenses, get them to do what you want."

Mello's tucked in his feet, sitting on his knees, looking down at the coffee table in the middle of the room with the thousands of rings from all the bottles they couldn't be bothered to put a coaster under. The soundtrack from the TV soars around them, filling up the empty space where there should be talking, or arguing, or in a perfect word moans and laughter and whispers into the night and towards a dawn of a day where they will not die.

He agrees by disagreeing, like Matt knew he would. It's almost amazing, how truthful dying men are.

"I've never liked...doing it," he says. "You know I don't get anything from it. Or touching," he adds as an afterthought. "Or kissing. I can do it, I have done it," he nods his head in acknowledgment, "But it's...nothing. Not to me. Maybe at first I just kept on because I wanted to see what I would feel, if I _could_ feel...and then it was just another thing I could use to manipulate others. And then it was the only thing that kept me alive."

His face flashes red from the picture onscreen, a wasteland of magma and fire and desolation. "Maybe I'm broken. Maybe it's just another way I'm wrong for this world. I know I should have felt something-anything-when I kissed you just now."

Matt feels his eyes on him, the unspoken _But..._He finally sits up, rubs at his face. "Thank you. For not taking advantage of me with that."

They watch the movie a little longer, as the two travelers simply walk in with their guide, driven by something like destiny toward an ending that Matt always forgets is more than a little bittersweet.

Mello finally says, "I'm sorry I can't give you what you've wanted for so long, not even on our last night on Earth. It wouldn't be like you wanted. I can't fake it, not with you. I know how much it means to you." And maybe Matt should feel crushed or something, since now is the first time that his best friend has acknowledged the likelihood of them surviving—which is not at all. But he really just feels regret of another kind.

Still.

It's as close as Mello gets to an I love you, he supposes.

And he'll take that.

If this was a fairytale, the spell would be broken and they fall into each other's arms. And they would have to get married first, but then they'd have happily ever after and spend the whole night kissing and touching and making actual, real, love. Two souls combined into a perfect, single one. And all that shit.

But this is the real world. This is biology and genetics and other stuff he's managed to forget since graduation. And he's going to die tomorrow. And he's going to die a virgin, unless he wants to chase down a whore at this time of night. That is a joke, by the way, because he's going to finish this movie and then he's going to drink at least one beer, and then he's going to bed for the last time.

He scoots closer to Mello, who is wary but doesn't back away, just close enough that their sides brush. A friend leaning against a friend. Nothing more. Platonic, just the undercurrents of longing. Like it always has been, will be.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Mello says.

The movie continues around them.

The last thing Mello says is, "I'm glad to be with you, Matt, here at the end of all things."

And Matt says something like, "Fuck you, we haven't even gotten to that part yet," but what he really means is something like "It's okay, I can love you this way too."

* * *

What movie were they watching at the end of this oneshot? Was it Lord of the Rings, Return of the King? (Hint: It was Return of the King).

Before anyone gets offended (the last thing I want in the world, so please put down your flaming torches and pitchforks!) Mello's dismissal that his asexuality is a "problem" and him apologizing for his lack of sexual attraction towards Matt definitely does not jive with my personal feelings towards it. Asexuality is a legitimate and often overlooked sexuality, possibly because it is not as easily definable as heterosexuality or homosexuality, and I've only been fortunate enough to learn more about people who identify themselves as such since joining the Sherlock fandom. If you have any questions, I definitely recommend spending some time reading up on it, as there is no way I can explain enough to do it justice. Like I said, the only reason I chose to make Mello ignorant on the topic is because he just didn't seem like the sort of person to sit down at a computer and look it up. I also chose to have him favor men in his sexual encounters as I believe Mello would have just gone after whatever gender seemed to have more control or power in a social situation.

Reviews are lovingly stroked in a dark cave as I rock back and forth and whisper _"My precious"_ when they show up in my inbox.


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